GO INSANE (AND EAT YOUR MATES)

[Hecatoncheires]

THE CALM BEFORE...​

Once upon a time, a mentally unstable German man wrote a book.

No, not Hitler you stupid fuck. He was Austrian.

In said book, the German proclaimed that your species was not descended from apes but rather devolved from them. Your ancestors somehow discovered that the consumption of the brain produced a powerful aphrodisiac effect, and things got a little bit out of hand from there. He outlined, in rather excessive detail, the ways in which your ape-grandparents organised brain hunts against rival groups, slaughtering and consuming their targets in an orgy of sex and violence.

But this rampant cannibalism had other effects, the German did claim.

Your ancestors' brains began to expand, rapidly. Too rapidly. Their intelligence grew, they lost the hair on their bodies and apparently the "innate psychic connection" to the planet that your ancestors possessed went too. Modern man came to be, practising cannibalism up until 50,000 years ago if the German is to be believed.

Hell of a claim, for a book without any sources cited and which was apparently written under the influence of powerful hallucinogenics at a Chinese monastery.

But the German didn't just stop with re-writing your species' accepted origin.

He also prophesied it's end.

Apparently humanity is now irrevocably mad, thanks to your former psychic ties to the planet being cut. Hence the destruction of entire habitats (wasteful), the rapidly-expanding urban landfill (ugly), the violence and savagery (idiot children rutting in the mud, all of you). Soon, it's all going to catch up to you. Soon, it'll all come to a head.

Soon, said the German, you'll be eating each other again...

"But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat feverishly the heart of life. And the revel went whirlingly on, until at length there commenced the sounding of midnight upon the clock..."
- The Masque of the Red Death, Edgar Allan Poe

CLOSE TO MIDNIGHT
CLUB CONSUMPTION
SOMEWHERE IN SOHO, LONDON

This is the fifth time Andrew 'Jonesy' Jones has visited the nightclub's bathrooms since the stag night arrived here around half an hour ago.

It's not the quality of the place that keeps drawing him in here, for it is entirely lacking in that. It is musty and drab, the smell of stale piss and spilled drinks lingering like a fog, the walls coated in cheap, grubby mirrors to ensure the optimum amount of bathroom existential crises. The stall doors hang loosely, boot-prints on their outsides a telling sign as to how they came to be in this state, and the urinals look like they're about to fall off the walls at the slightest provocation.

He's not here for the quality of the company, either, for it too can be found wanting. Drunken students decked out in their Saturday best, barely capable of standing nevermind aiming. Gaggles of Lads, matching chinos and designer polo-shirts that strain against the watermelons they've managed to stuff up their arms, sauntering about in little huddles. Ageing, 30-something business wankers who have yet to receive the memo that they are too old to be behaving like this, all comb-overs to hide the bald patches and excessively expensive outfits to compensate for the fact that they're a bunch of miserable old has-beens desperately clinging to the glory days of their youth.

No, Jonesy isn't here for any of that.

He's here because it's a godsend compared to being out there.

Out there is not a place a guy like Jonesy has any business being in. Jonesy is a simple man, these days; he likes a beer-garden and a decent pint of lager, some nice wee establishment with a predisposition towards wooden panelling and craft beer, maybe one of those trendy new bars at a push. Out there, however, you will find none of that. All that out there can promise is noise. Pure noise. A certified audio assault on your ear-drums that aims to give you tinnitus by the end of the night, a coked-up DJ screaming inaudibly into a microphone for the assembled dance-floor attendees. Figures in skin-tight skirts that leave literally nothing to the imagination gyrating to music that will be popular and relevant for the next 24 hours and then forgotten forever. Drinks that cost more than most sweat-shop workers make in three years, handed over haphazardly assuming you can get the attention of the unfortunate bastards working behind the bar at all.

No, Jonesy is starting to come to the conclusion that if there is such a thing as a personal Hell, out there is what his could well look like. At least in here, amidst the stale piss and faded business wankers, he can escape his fate for two or three minutes. Perhaps a few more, if he takes his sweet time about it. But it's a delaying tactic, and nothing more. When you're the brother of the bride, it seems that you are obligated by ancient familial bonds that stretch back into the mists of antiquity to stick with his almost-brother-in-law's stag party till it's bitter end, likely winding up responsible for said almost-brother-in-law's safety as his mates ply him with drinks (something they've been doing with rigorous fervour since the early afternoon).

With a sigh that comes out more like a grumble, Jonesy tugs at the zip of his fly and gives his hands a cursory splash in the battered sinks tucked into the corner. Then he shuffles to the doors, his gait and demeanour not too dissimilar from the heretics that they would burn at the stake not too far from where he is now. What a lovely history London has, after all.

Jonesy stands at the doors, the muted pounding of the speakers out there still succeeding in giving him the beginnings of a headache. As he shoulders it open and steps out into the main room of the club the sound hits him like a wave, crashing over him, enveloping him, drowning out any other sound. This is the sort of place where you can barely hear yourself think, never mind the words from the person standing right next to you.

He laments to himself just how long a night this is going to be.

The delicious irony of this thought is sadly lost on his miserable, undersized ape brain.

 

[Astaroth]

She's been keeping an eye on him all night, on and off. He's been quiet. Twitchy. No fun.

Being a stranger, he's also got the dubious honor of being the one person in their little ragtag party whom she knows for sure she's never shagged. (There've been some very weird nights, and she's got a distinct recollection of "Mama Meat Grinder" eating a cake off of her naked thighs. She can't quite tell you how that one turned out though.) Which is of course what earned him the automatic point of interest; she's always on the lookout for new experiences.

Cerys tries to remember exactly who he's supposed to be again. She thinks he was introduced as somebody's brother, but between the dull haze of chemicals in her system and her utter lack of interest in committing useless shite to memory, she's fucked if she can remember whose. Maybe that cow Rou's getting himself hitched to. (The upcoming wedding is another thing she's still trying to wrap her brain around. Cerys has never seen much point in matrimony. She's certainly not here to give her blessing, whatever that would even be worth.) They haven't had a proper conversation yet, and her attention's mostly been absorbed with her regular crowd of lads and especially the man of the hour.

Right now, though, Cerys is itching for something else. And as always, when Cerys sees an opportunity, she pounces.

"Hey, love," she purrs as Jonesy pops out of the gents', insinuating herself into his personal bubble and planting a sloppy kiss on the corner of his mouth like they're old friends, her harlot scarlet nails brushing his chin. (She's going easy on him. Several of the boys got much more thorough and wholly socially inappropriate greetings.) "Got a light? Or anything, really. I'm just gagging for it."

After all, no one goes to the loo that often unless they've got food poisoning or a drug habit. Cerys is hedging her bets on the latter.

 

[RiverNotch]

"WOOT", "WOO", "STAG", "DUE": Four words, each one ramming the ear drums of every person finding themselves in the way of the beast of Christmas, the Saintly Sinner, the guy whom everyone keeps mistaking for 'that actor' or 'that king', NICHOLAS BACKOWSKI--four short, stout, fun[?] syllables that, in the world of words, somewhat mirror their primary orator tonight. Nicholas, though, no longer knows what they mean, as the oceanic amount of alcohol he's concentrated into his bloodstream has completely detached his mind from his mouth, and his brain from his hypersexed yet still unsatisfied body.

But ah, who in the world of Club Consumption cares what words mean? As long as the drinks keep flowing, the music keeps playing, and the asses keep shaking, who needs to think about anything? Unless, of course, that who felt a wet tingling in his pubic region, and needed to remember if that door with the sign spelling out "R E S T R (double O) M" was the place he needed to go satisfy himself in....

Naturally, Nicholas, after a few minutes of polishing his [little] rifle on a nearby blonde Swedish mule, became one of the aforementioned "whos". Mind quickly shut up mouth; brain quickly took control of body. His flight to the male's lavatory was quick; his preparations of his reservoir for draining, even quicker.

And then, reeeeellllleeeeeaaaaasssssse.

But hurried things are often done sloppily, and this one was no exception. Returning to the present tense, Nicholas, after uttering the customary 'ahhhh', finds himself immediately and completely fulfilling his return to judgement, as he notices that the target of his rifle was not a urinal, but was instead another donkey, or rather, a mad cunny (Cerys). The words "Sorry" and "Smelly"[?] thus flow out of his mouth, then a series of slurred yet hammy (after all, his voice is that of Brian Blessed's) offerings of handkerchief-accomplished assistance.​

​

 

[Thomas McTavish]

Jim was currently doing what he usually did at parties. Bouncing off the walls. Except this time, he was doing it to entertain adults, not children. College girls, in particular. An endless combo of backflips off the nearest wall were currently grabbing the attention of various "revved and ready" girls who just happened to have a thing for parkour. His timing was perfectly to the beat of the music, which was blurred in Jim's ears by both his rapidly increasing dizziness and high levels of alcohol. Really, he was surprised he hadn't puked yet, he could do this a couple more times, keep the ladies impressed, maybe even-

And then it hit. He landed his last revolution and forth came the contents of his stomach, coating the chest of the nearest patron. Who was also one of the girls he had been trying to impress. "I- uh- I'm- I just-" he stuttered, just as shocked as the girl he puked on. "I'm gonna go now." he slurred, stumbling off through the crowd as his face reddened immensely. Another wave of nausea hit, and his legs quickly hurried him to the restroom, past three people he somehow recognized. After emptying the remainder of the day's meals into the filthy toilet, he emerged to realize it was Jonsey, Cerys, and that one guy who looked like Saint Nick whom he had recognized. "Oh, hey fellas," he stammered, wiping a smear of that morning's tomato from the corner of his mouth. The voice in the back of his head was already commenting on the recent event involving the loss of his stomach content with the customary "Goddammit, Jim."

 

[heliacalRebirth]

It just so happened that for the unfortunate Jonesy, sound was not the only thing crashing over him. No... it was a much better idea to stay in the restroom, because in Rou's gang nobody gets left out. That often times meant everyone in the damn bar was in some way touched, fought with, or... as luck had it, peed on. Perhaps this was an initiation, of sorts. A special introduction for the special relative. Had anyone the brain capacity to form cohesive thoughts, it would make quite the list of things to say you've done in life. Something to add to the resume.

List or not, Taeya Brooks was in a bad mood this night. True, the entirety of Club Consumption knew this, and only a select few of those far enough into their kegs had the courage -or, more correctly speaking, stupidity- to approach her. One of those aforementioned associates just so happened to be relieving himself on another bitch. A sorry mistake, no doubt.

They felt her before they heard her. An angry Mama called for angry stomping, which in turn did amass to a small fraction of floor shaking. But Mama Meat Grinder was a sly one, and she planned her rhythmic charge in time with the bass drops, leaving her almost undetectable- like a puma. Or at least, that's what she liked to think. She was not sober enough to recognize that there was, in fact, no bass drops or rhythm to the shit that was blaring out of the speakers. But... miraculously... it cast the same effect.

With a growl that could compete with the biggest of pumas, she descended upon the trio; keg in one hand, drunken rage the other. As if struck by a force field, the small group dispersed in all directions, and not a moment too soon. In a similar scenario, such an incident could have ended much akin to the term "strike" at a bowling alley.

"When Mama say you is hers tonight..." Taeya wheeled around, cornering Nicholas against the door to the men's restroom (and unbeknownst to her, shoving a certain parkour professionale back in). It was at this point that she decided to empty her keg hand, replacing it with her victim's collar. The shattering of glass was deafened by the Meat Grinder's breathing, her breath a mixture of alcohol and something one could only hope was meat of the livestock variety.

"...you ain't gonn' whip out yo COCK AT ANOTHA GUR!'"

 

[BarrenThin]

Duncan was simply being Duncan. He had found himself a corner to sit in, where he gradually grew more inebriated as drinks were brought to him. He felt like a pariah. He was here for Rou, though, so he tried his best to be outgoing and friendly with those around him. It wasn't going well. He held very few common interests with the women- or anyone, for that matter. No one was really interested in discussing the latest revolutionary discoveries about string theory, or how amazingly powerful new computers were. After a few more drinks, though, he felt his confidence, or, rather, his foolishness, growing.

He swaggered over to one of the girls, a crooked grin spreading across his face. After a few cheesy pick-up lines, the girl dismissed the drunken man. Feeling insulted and a bit downtrodden, he shuffled back to his corner. He saw Jonesy, the new guy, and Cerys, a not so new, but not so welcome, face. He decided to stay where he was and watch, for the moment. He also saw Nicholas, who was, of course, incredibly drunk. However, as "Mama Meat Grinder" made a commotion, splitting the trio up, he decided there was safety in numbers. I'll be doing Jonesy a favor if I get him away from that girl, anyways. He thought, as he made his way across the room.

Grinning Nicholas's way as the woman got a hold of him, he approached Jonesy. "Heyyyy! Jonesy, right? I'm Duncan." He held out a hand to shake. "You're Rou's... Brother?"

 

[RiverNotch]

And after delivering an apology as messy as his urination, Nicholas found the ham in his voice being ground into a squeak, as he realized that his kinky mistake had attracted the attention of perhaps the vastest woman in the club: the intimidating, foul-mouthed Yank who went by the name "Mama Meat Grinder".

Two instincts thus kicked Nick in (or from) the balls. As Taeya screamed at Nicholas not to be the Pat Garrett to another woman's Billy the Kid, the first instinct, an instinct Nicholas had somewhat honed in his University years, got activated. The beast's hands, tightly clasping the collar of Santa's suit, suddenly found themselves being even more tightly held by Nicholas's own--and in the moments of the tech-guy's approach to Jonesy, Father Christmas and the Burger Queen were manipulated into a lover's embrace - the second impulse.

The activation of both instincts, by the way, also triggered the sudden calcification of his tree, which at this point still remained uncovered.

Anyway, the embrace was brief: Nick's mind, in its partial satisfaction, was quick to realize his folly (or, rather, to realize that Taeya, though definitely sporting some [in terms of mass] great goods, probably was not the best person to be uncomfortable in the restroom stalls with). He released his grip, pulled back, [cowered,] and, as softly as Brian Blessed could, spoke his reply, "But meat-pie, it was an accident...."

 

[Hecatoncheires]

The music sounds like two robots fucking in between bouts of trying to murder each other. YOU

There's an all-too forward redhead, with an extremely loose grasp on the concept of 'personal space', pressing up against him and apparently under the impression that his frequent jaunts to the little boys' room are related to illegal substances (a year ago, this might actually have been true as well).HAVE

A portly gentleman with the voice of an inebriated tenor singer has just urinated on said redhead's leg, only to be pinned to the door of the bathroom by another of Rou's mates; a lady for whom the word 'hefty' was originally devised for. Conveniently, this is the moment a fourth friend of Rou's picks this moment to emerge from said bathroom, having just been emptying the contents of his stomach.NO

Jonesy has already come to the conclusion that his soon-to-be-brother-in-law's mates were all completely batshit insane, but this further cements it. His head twists back and forth like a cornered animal, his eyes falling upon the approaching Duncan. He looks upon the new arrival like a castaway might look upon vessel, and gratefully accepts the hand to shake.
"Alright, Duncan, nice to meet you," he yells out above the din of the music. Already he's beginning to detach himself from the commotion erupting next to the bathrooms. "I'm no his brother yet. Not till after the wedding, eh?"IDEA

Another couple steps, and he manages to get clear. His head swings round to call over to Cerys as he moves back towards the group's table with Duncan. "AyesorrygottegocheckonRoueh!" It comes out in broad Scots, growing more muted as Jonesy puts more and more distance between himself and the quartet.WHAT

Of course, Jonesy is perhaps a little pre-emptive in writing Rou's mates off as deranged.YOU'RE

In comparison to what's coming, he really hasn't seen anything yet.IN FOR

 

[Thomas McTavish]

Jim suddenly found himself being shoved back inside the restroom that smelled of piss, alcohol, smoke, and, most recently, his vomit. The woman he recognized as "Mama", the Yank of the group, was rather loudly berating Nick, who's back was pushing him backwards and into the place he had just come from. He attempted to stammer a sentence, but failed as the restroom's newest occupants proved to be louder than he could manage without attracting Taeya's rage to himself. And that was the LAST thing the poor bastard known as Jim needed right now. His back hit the wall with a light thud as he tried to back away from Mama Meat Grinder and St. Nick. And there was no getting past her. Great, trapped in the men's room. Just what I fuckin' needed.

 

[BarrenThin]

He breathed a sigh of relief as they moved away from the group. "Sorry about that. That probably wasn't the best first impression of Rou's friends, was it?" He forced a laugh. I hate parties. In his opinion, a quiet meeting of Rou's friends would have been more fun, anyways. He was alone, in that respect, though. He felt like Jonesy needed a fair warning, despite his dislike for interaction. "They're fucking insane, if you haven't noticed." He grinned to show he was at least partially joking. He wasn't, though. Not even a little. Cerys was a whore, Taeya was a pig, Nicholas was an asshole, and Jim was a show-off. They were a really motley bunch, and he often wondered where he fit into it.

"Anyways, sexual assault and elephant attack aside, what do you think of the party?" He shouted.

 

[Fijoli]

Semper had met a stranger and like something that walked out of the 40's, she apologized for getting in his way. The stranger seemed eager. He put a paper in her hand. On that paper was an address, and at the doors of that address she soon stood. Semper hadn't enough liquor in her system to handle people, but through those doors was her aqueous salvation. Through them she went remaining a black and white among the adverse palette of personalities that surrounded her.

Moving straight to the bar, she made an immediate order of Johny Walker Black on the rocks. She lingered, briefly leaning back onto the bar, sipping graciously at her scotch. Watching the room burst from the living colors of dancing, music, and every face exclaimed a undisputed stranger. Each sip took her deeper into the abhorrence and that envelopment made her move into the rhythms of the sound. She was forgetting more and more with each sip consumed, the very fact that she was the in-consistence.

The hype was deafening and fortunately for her, the fashionably late entrance went unnoticed and at the bar she swayed, eyes darting from face to face. Placing the glass upon the bar, her eyes told its tender all he needed to know. Promptly her second glass of scotch was replaced by a 20....no, 50 dollar bill.

Through the Strangers she moved, carefully cutting through their enthusiastic movements. Only to circle the space and return back to the bar for more of those personally endorsed fluids.

 

[Wanderfool]

Valencia was dressed inappropriately. Not in the way the silly girls on the dance-floor were with their clingy materials and flesh revealing clothing and the sort. Instead the practical grey dress that could only be defined as demure, caused her instead of blending to stick out like a sore thumb. Of course she was too preoccupied with the feeling of nervousness and restlessness that had begun early that afternoon when the drinking had begun. Turning away from a quite grotesque show of a young lady strangling her dance partner with her exceptionally long tongue, she faced yet another cocktail of some sort that Rou had pushed her way. Something along the lines of liquid courage he said, never the less she found that with each moment the red liquid looked more and more appetizing for some strange reason.


Without another thought, she downed the liquid and coughed primly as the alcohol burned all the way down. Valencia was far from used to drinking, or having "fun" as many of the stag participants liked to call it. Wiping a few of the residual drops of alcohol from her mouth, she recrossed her legs and convinced herself that letting off a little steam never killed anyone.


How wrong she would be.


This final drink, however, did not help in the slightest to calm her nerves. Instead it only caused that invisible string holding her together to be wound even tighter. With twitching fingers on the bartop, she squeaked her order of a straight shot of 151. The only reason she ordered that, was simply for the fact she overheard someone else call it out. To be exact it was another soul of their little stag due… there he was. Rou the man soon to be wed, he looked to be enjoying himself. Turning around fully, half a mind focused on not falling over into the man beside her she caught sight of his soon to be brother in-law.

Classic Valencia.


Still sober enough to keep up with every name and face that had ever been introduced to her, even with her senses awash with alcohol she was still prim and proper Ms. Winters. The fair stoic face behind the grand with fingers nimble enough to place a piece of mozart with no mistake to be heard. Little did most see, she was a terrible fake. Always worried about her image that everything she does is perfectly measured. Masked. To cover the ugly.


But even she isn't that good.

Simpering she closed her compact and brushed a blonde curl from her face. Silly Valencia.

 

[Astaroth]

This is no christening for Cerys Mackie; a body would be hard pressed to name a bodily fluid that has yet to be voided onto her unsanctified person. A little urine is nothing to get cheesed off about, and quickly remedied.

"Up yours, tosser!" Her fingers illustrate her meaning for Nicholas's benefit, quite succinctly. Temporarily retracting her claws from the hapless Jonesy, she kicks off her high heels and shimmies out of her unimaginatively tight jeans (now displaying a loathsome, dank-smelling dark spot on the calf). Her pout is practiced and artistically rendered, the sort of expression that would put a child actress to shame. (Although in this case, shameless is more the word, and there's nothing childlike in those dusky eyes.) "Don't you know how to treat a lady?"

Of course, Cerys Mackie can hardly be classified as such. She knows that full well.

She's slipping her stilettos back on when the grand old Meat Grinder charges over, unmindful of her status change from "indecent dress" to "alarmingly nude". (The patrons of Club Consumption might count themselves fortunate that Cerys at least had the consideration to be wearing knickers on this occasion. Fancy lace ones, at that.) She's unconcerned that she'll be arrested or thrown out of the establishment. Being unconcerned is what gets her through most of the mad stunts she pulls. It always works out, in the end.

It's in the commotion of Mama's assault that her prey starts to slip away.

When Jonesy calls out to her, her head snaps up, and her sultry sulk turns to an irate grimace. She recognizes the rescuing party who has made the mistake of foiling her. Oh, yes, she knows him well.

Duncan.

"I'll be back for these later," she belts out over the shitty ambiance, chucking her sodden trousers over Taeya's shoulder and into the gents', where the acrid stench might mingle with its own kind. She doesn't notice when the foul-smelling garment smacks poor, sorry Jim dead in the kisser. Her beady little eyes have already zeroed in on Jonesy and Duncan, and she's after the pair in two shakes of a lamb's tail.

"What's the hurry, lads?" she chimes in as she slithers between them, teeth bared in Duncan's direction. A proprietary hand lands dead on Jonesy's bum, making itself known in a rather handsy manner. "I don't bite. Most of the time."

That assurance is a baldfaced lie, of course. (Just one more drop in an ocean of falsehood.) Cerys always bites, one way or another.

 

[Cassette]

Somewhere in the darkened pit of stinking scum-bags stood Damien, attempting to get a drink in the bar. Even with his great height, it was still a pain trying to get a drink, and Damien had to wait a couple of minutes to get his turn ordering. Waiting was not something Damien liked. Eventually though the bartender asked Damien what he'd like, to which Damien simply grunted 'Guinness' in reply. Fancy cocktails with too many bright colours and exotic flavours weren't something Damien could be doing with, even on his mate's Stag Do, so he just stuck with the usual stout. Throwing a twenty pound note on the table, Damien grabbed his drink and left, not bothering to wait for change. He'd already done too much waiting for his liking, and twenty pounds was nothing to him.

Barging his way through the throng of people, Damien managed to find a space where he could stand without somebody knocking his drink every couple of seconds. Sipping at the Guinness, Damien had to wonder what on earth had made him think this would be a relaxing break from work. Hopefully Rou's fiancé was hot enough to be worth enduring this hyper-sexual hell, although knowing Rou, Damien doubted it.

Then halfway through his stout Damien felt a sudden tingling down below. Oh no. He needed to take a piss, ASAP. Pouring the unfinished stout on an unlucky passerby, and shoving the empty glass into their hands, Damiegan his hurried stumble over to the toilets. When he got there, however, a wall of meat blocked the entrance. Of course it would, since there's nowhere better to hang out than the toliet entrance, is there? "Move," Damien demanded to the group in his way. Multiple syllables were notably only given to those Damien deemed worthy of his respect- anybody blocking his path the men's rivvie somehow failed to come into that category.

 

[Fijoli]

"Rou" she said to herself, in a brief and disconnected remembrance,"who the hell is Rou?"

She watched a rather animated black woman make her way over to a set of people and watched them intently. The woman who had removed some clothing caught her eye at first and the commotion was more visual to her as the loud speakers vibrated above her head. Valencia had sat beside Semper and as her new bar mate scanned through all the faces, Semper looked at her. She noticed right away that this woman was way out of place here. The white mage in a black mage hide out, or that was what it looked like to Semper.

She lifted up her hand to wave it around and grab Valencia's attention."hey," she said cracking a tiny smile,"what is this all about?, Do you know who...,"she hesitates before remembering,"Rou? I think he gave me this address or it might have been a friend of his, can't really remember the face." Semper placed her hand down on the bar for the Bartenders attention and yelled to him while looking at Valencia,"2 Walker Blacks, neat please."

She paid and tipped before sliding one of the scotch glasses over to Valencia. "Don't worry, if you don't drink it...I will." Semper coaxed as alcohol pumped its way through her veins. Articulate and well enunciated she looked, spoke, and acted far from inebriated. None could see through the veil of poison she had in her system. Waiting for Valencia to respond she took a swig of her drink attempting to be social was not her talents, but she wasn't exactly bad at it either.

 

[Hecatoncheires]

Rou is, at this moment, slumped at a table booth with the expression of someone who's been punched in the head repeatedly. Which co-incidentally is an accurate metaphor for the effects of the alcohol supplied by his friends on his ability to function like a sentient being. The human body is a soft and squishy little thing, easily affected by chemicals and other toxins. What remains bizarre is the willingness with which humans imbibe such things.IF YOU

For a moment or two, it seems as though Jonesy and Duncan will make good on their escape towards said table booth, and the former has just opened his mouth to reply to the latter's question. But the maelstrom that is Cerys will not be so easily escaped: something as trivial as a drunk bloke urinating on your trousers is rectified by simply removing said urinated-upon garments. Though this seems like a fairly logical and straightforward solution, the humans standing nearby nonetheless seem rather surprised by the suddenly trouser-less woman gliding after the two men. A pair of bouncers standing not too far away from the commotion seem somewhat taken aback as well, but their attention is more focused upon the scene erupting outside the men's bathroom as they contemplate just how they are supposed to handful someone as ample as the Good Lady Meat-Grinder.RUN NOW

Jonesy winces just a little as he feels Cerys' hand becoming rather closely acquainted with his backside. He's simply not used to women being as ass-gropingly forward about these sort of matters as she is. Swallowing and casting an especially confused look to Duncan, he replies,
"Just going to check on Rou. Make sure he doesn't wander off, or get into a fight or something." His minuscule throat-muscles produce a nervous laugh that can be heard about the thumping speakers. "You guys did put quite a lot of drink down his throat earlier, after all."YOU MAY SURVIVE

The trio continues on to the table. As Rou catches sight of them (and his alcohol-addled brain finally succeeds in processing the images his woefully limited eyes are sending to it) a stupid grin forms across his face; staggering upright, he sways his way over to Jonesy and claps his arms down on both of the man's shoulders. Not so much as an expression of affection, but more as a means of steadying himself.
"Hhhhhhhhhhey futuree brotherrrrrrrr!" Rou giggles, slurring and drawing out every word, "Whereeee you been at?" The man's eyes are glazed, vacant, and he doesn't wait for a reply. "Aaaaaaaaaaaaa had a thought, sssee. Suppoooooosed to be this biiiiiiiig-ass bunch of sssssssssshooting stars in the ssssky tonight. We should... we should get aaaaaaaaaall the guys togetherrrrr an' go waaaaatch them. Whadoyusay?" The last sentence slurs together into a vocal mess, Rou's mouth literally spitting it out and spattering Jonesy's face with spit.

 

[heliacalRebirth]

Mama felt Nicholas pull away. Her mind was sluggish, not truly registering why she was being hugged. Anger turned to confusion, which turned to anger once more when she rediscovered the fact that the man in question's schlong, was still visiting. "Put yo shit away son! You makin' Mama hungry an they ain't a big enough stall fo me." She suddenly felt a prodding from the rear. There wasn't much room, but Taeya had managed to turn around, only to find herself staring at one of her favourite members of their group- Damien.

"Move"

Mama threw back her head and released a loud roar (aka laugh), which later may or may not have resulted in the new crack on the gent's restroom mirror. Damien was her baby. She decided to take the man under her wing, because he had "them smarts" and she liked that. Mama had the amazing gift of ignorance- if the feelings of tender love weren't mutual, if sure flew over her head.

"Oh, mah boo! Mmmmm I din' know you was here! You make Mama so happy-" she then decided to give a grand pat on the back. It was because of this event that the situation became sour. Or perhaps salty is a better word. Because of said pat on the back, Damien's reaction had been much more fluid than what Mama had expected. With a great big scream of shock (okay... that was probably what broke the glass) she took a few mighty steps back, resulting in Nicholas being shoved backwards with the force akin to an air rifle. In the chaos, in between the squeaking and frantic shuffling of feet, and the screaming, and the banging of an innocent individual trapped in one stall, along with the gawking men stationed at the urinals, a distinct "God dammit Jim!" could be heard, indicating that Nicholas was not the only one caught in the mix.

 

[BarrenThin]

Duncan almost immediately shied away when Cerys came over. She frightened him, sometimes. "Oh... H-hello, Cerys." He glanced down at her hand, and, with a frown, he overcame his fear... somewhat. He tugged her hand away with a glare that showed he wouldn't have her ruining Jonesy's opinion of Rou's friends. As they forced their way through the crowd, he did his best to wedge himself between them. Seeing how incredibly drunk Rou was distracted him. I think he's had enough... Of course, Rou would never listen to him, so he kept this thought to himself. "That sounds fun." He said, referring to the 'shooting stars'.

Hearing even more noise from the gent's, he was just waiting for the source, more of his friends, to get kicked out.

 

[Cassette]

After Damiens little...accident...a rather colourful string of words flew from Damien's mouth. He should have realized something would have gone wrong with Mama 'meat grinder' involved. Mama was rather good at attracting trouble to all those around her, or much rather creating. Worse still, Mama seemed to have a bit of a thing for Damien, meaning he was subject to more of it. In reality it was partially Damien's fault, for not going sooner, but there was no way he was ever going to admit that. Glaring at Mama for a few moments- which might hopefully keep her away for a bit- Damien decided to try and somehow solve the issue at hand. Which was also an excuse for taking out his rage on somebody shorter than him, like a proper man would.

Damien strode over to Nicholas, who had also been a casualty to Mama, with confidence which didn't make sense considering the wet patch on Damien's trousers. Probably because they wouldn't be his for long. Looming over Nicholas, Damien ordered, "We're swapping pants. In the toilets. Now." This wasn't a friendly request- it was an order. As Nicholas would find out in even less friendly ways if he tried to suggest otherwise.

 

[Wanderfool]

"Rou" she said to herself, in a brief and disconnected remembrance,"who the hell is Rou?"

She watched a rather animated black woman make her way over to a set of people and watched them intently. The woman who had removed some clothing caught her eye at first and the commotion was more visual to her as the loud speakers vibrated above her head. Valencia had sat beside Semper and as her new bar mate scanned through all the faces, Semper looked at her. She noticed right away that this woman was way out of place here. The white mage in a black mage hide out, or that was what it looked like to Semper.

She lifted up her hand to wave it around and grab Valencia's attention."hey," she said cracking a tiny smile,"what is this all about?, Do you know who...,"she hesitates before remembering,"Rou? I think he gave me this address or it might have been a friend of his, can't really remember the face." Semper placed her hand down on the bar for the Bartenders attention and yelled to him while looking at Valencia,"2 Walker Blacks, neat please."

She paid and tipped before sliding one of the scotch glasses over to Valencia. "Don't worry, if you don't drink it...I will." Semper coaxed as alcohol pumped its way through her veins. Articulate and well enunciated she looked, spoke, and acted far from inebriated. None could see through the veil of poison she had in her system. Waiting for Valencia to respond she took a swig of her drink attempting to be social was not her talents, but she wasn't exactly bad at it either.

The rum was now working through Valencia's system, it could be seen by the sudden flush in her cheeks and the small burning hiccups she was suddenly plagued by. The voice was soft, but the woman could still be heard over the gyrating rhythm of the cheap house music. It was a musician's ear that could pick up the soft changes in tone and tempo. Looking over to the source, she was surprised to see another woman. "Hi, Valencia... Winters! Its a pleasure to meet you." The stranger inquired about the little group of rambunctious partakers that dabbled in all sin available to them. "Oh Rou, that silly man is getting drunk off his head just before he is to marry a pretty little thing. Are you not acquainted with the man of the hour?" Valencia leaned back and pointed to a man having a hard time staying on his feet, "That'd be him over there, having a jolly time by the looks of it." The woman ordered a strange drink that distantly reminded her of her father by the smell of it.

Gingerly picking up the drink, something in her mind begged her to put it down and leave this horrible place of Sin. In fact, it was her mother's voice pining and careening in her own intoxicated mind. Verses of the book were recited in the manic mantra that made Valencia sick to her stomach. Watching her reflection in the golden liquor, she saw her father. The two small blue eyes peering at her emptily then the clear reflection disappeared and all she saw was the dark outlining of her skull. Disturbed, Valencia began to gulp down the chilled poison. As the ice cubes clinked at the bottom, she cleared her throat and slid it far from where she sat. "I've never drank scotch, in fact before tonight I've never had so much as a thimble of table wine for dinner." She felt a sudden need to victimize herself, and expose her mother's faults. "My mother is a good christian woman, if she were to ever find out my horrible deeds. Father Julius would be phoned for an exorcist." Valencia laughed hollowly. "An exorcist, she already thinks me a harlot for cutting my hair."

Valencia, come to find, was an honest drunk. Things tend to fall apart when the strings that hold it together come undone. Now as she stared at an empty glass that once held rich scotch, she found that she was much thirstier then even her father. It wasn't for the burn of expensive alcohol, no she yearned for much more.